


Latent Heat

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Ficlet, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Acrobatics in a dream don't lead to sweat; acrobatics in real life do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latent Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt in the summary.

Eames is staring. This is something he does, occasionally. It’s also something that frustrates Arthur, occasionally, but he tries not to let it show. 

This time, Eames’s expression is caught somewhere between bewilderment and fascination. He leans across the table and tugs at a loose piece of Arthur’s hair. “Arthur,” he says, in a low whisper, “I’m not sure how to tell you this. You have a hair out of place.”

Arthur pushes his hand away, frowning. “Yes.”

“And you’re…” The fingers are more intrusive this time, sliding into the gap between Arthur’s collar and the damp skin of his neck. Eames rubs his fingertips together. “Sweating.” His voice takes on a tone of mock-horror.

“I jumped out of a train,” Arthur points out. 

“I’ve seen you do far more strenuous things than that.” Eames keeps staring for another long moment and then – the damning thing – reaches for his pocket. 

Arthur sees the slip of red between Eames’s fingers. He sighs. “We’re not dreaming. That was my point.” 

“And what point was that again?” Eames asks. “Sorry, I was a tad distracted by the idea that there’s an ordinary human body under there somewhere. I had always supposed you were a mystical being composed primarily of beautifully-tailored suits and sarcasm.”

“My point,” Arthur says, ignoring the way Eames’s eyes have darkened, “was that in dreams, we can choose how we want to be seen. You know that better than anyone.”

Eames shrugs, loose. “And you choose not to break a sweat. I’m sure you have perfectly valid reasons for that, not that I can think of one right now at this moment. But _here_ …”

“Yes, here, of course. I’m not a… whatever the hell you said. We jumped out of a moving train.”

“We did,” Eames says. “You do bring me the best jobs. That’s why you’re my favourite.” He grins. “But tell me, love, don’t you think your way destroys the illusion somewhat? When the target notices that you don’t get all charmingly heated up when you throw yourself into one of your displays of acrobatics? Personally, I find this a much more natural guise.” He looks Arthur up and down; Arthur fights the urge to brush down his jacket for dirt that he’s missed. He had tried to clean up in the diner’s restroom but there’s only so much you can do.

Natural has nothing to do with it. Arthur doesn’t like mess. Dreams have the possibility of endless, perfect order. Even in their paradoxes, even though there’s always the possibility of them falling apart around him. They have the potential to be as composed as the dreamer. Arthur likes that control, likes how it extends to himself as a part of the architecture. And he still doesn’t know why Eames is so fixated on the difference.

A drop of sweat works its way down from his hairline. Arthur flicks it away and Eames watches closely. Arthur says, “The acrobatics are usually unplanned. The target isn’t supposed to know they’re going on. Normally, a person who’s out of breath, shirt sticking to them – have you looked at yourself, by the way? - they get noticed. Like we are now.”

“Well, of course we are. We just jumped out of a moving train. And there you are, looking like that.” Eames gestures, indicating Arthur’s general form without specifics. “Who wouldn’t notice?”

“Eames.”

Eames leans across to Arthur again, pushing the unruly hair back where it belongs. “There. Much better. No one would suspect you might be human after all.” 

This close, Eames smells of his own sweat, and the dirt he rolled through in his less-than-graceful landing from the train. Arthur’s pulse quickens, just a fraction. A pure physiological response. 

Eames smiles wide. “But we know different, don’t we? Arthur can be messed up, we see, even just a little bit. Out here in the real world.” He touches Arthur’s collar again, in the pretence of straightening it. His skin is still warm from the exertion earlier. He says, “Don’t panic, I’ll tell no one. To be completely honest, it’s a picture I want all to myself. You never know when that information might come in handy.”

He shifts back to his own chair, still grinning. Arthur glares half-heartedly and tries to get back to the job at hand. He ignores the heat under his collar. And the drop of cool sweat now rolling down his spine.


End file.
